Greatness
by Ocean of Ashes
Summary: Will reflects on how the person he has become measures up against the person he wanted to be.


Author's Note: I just couldn't resist writing this because there just isn't enough pieces about this show, let alone this couple. And it's just fantastic, it's my new absolute favourite show. I haven't been this excited about a tv show since ER (and yes, I know it's been a full year since it's been gone, but seriously, the hole in my heart is not mending). I'd love to hear any thoughts that you have on this piece. (PS. Don't tell my Grey's Anatomy readers that I'm here! I'll have a lynch mob after me for not updating any of my stories in a million years… And if you are one of my Grey's Anatomy readers, remember that if you come after me with pitchforks and scythes and any other ancient agricultural tools you may have lying around, I'll never be able to update)

Disclaimer: Totally not for profit, and I take no credit whatsoever for the genius creations that are these characters or this show.

Rating: T – There is some strong language, but I refuse to believe the odd swear word dotted in warrants a higher rating. Consider yourself duly warned.

_Greatness_

You know you're no angel. You're not even that good a person. There's certainly no helping orphans. Sure, you'll work your hardest and do the best for your client, but you don't exactly do it out of the kindness of your heart; your hourly rate is the fourth highest out of anyone in Chicago, and Stern hardly counts anymore, so it's more like third.

When Baxter said you whored yourself out to the lowest scum he wasn't that far wrong, not in the early days anyway; you are a little more discerning now. You've got to the top by trampling on anyone who gets in your way and sometimes you worry that you'll never be able to wash the blood off your hands. Diane's your ally for now, and you would like to keep it that way, but you know that if it really came to it, you'd sell her out as quick as you would your own grandmother.

You're a bastard when it comes to women too. You pick them up wherever you can, bars, charity functions, just out on the street even, and you never call them back. A few of the out of town ones you do, but only those clever enough to know the rules.

You weren't always this way. Well, maybe with the women, but the rest of it. When you are at Georgetown, full of youthful enthusiasm and ideals, you really believe you're going to change the world. Human rights, civil rights, the stuff that _mattered. _You were going to be _great. _Fifteen years on, and you might be a brilliant lawyer, one of the best in this whole damn city, but even your own mother would be hard pushed to call you _great _in the way that you had once hoped.

It's an unpalatable truth, and to be honest, you have liked yourself less and less over the years, but you're arrogant and ruthless and always put yourself first. You are not great.

Alicia still looks at you as if you are. Right from her very first day, she looked at you as if you were still that fresh faced, idealistic, raw young law student that she shared her notes, then an apartment, and, just that once, her bed, with. The familiarity of it is like a kick in the guts, and you really realize the man you have become. Every time you meet those deep dark eyes, you see your twenty three year old self looking back at you, and you feel the faintest glimmer of hope that hasn't been there for the longest time.

Of course, that's not why you love her. You love her because she is the most amazing person you have ever met. She's so beautiful, and smart and funny, and inspiring. She was before, but now, after what she's been through over the past months, you think she's fucking incredible and you feel so honoured to know her. You also love her because you know her, _really _know her. You know what she looks like without any makeup on first thing in the morning, and what her favourite thing to sleep in is (an oversized t-shirt, ones that she used to steal from you but must be her husband's now). You know just how strong she takes her coffee, and what kind of mood she's in from what topping she has on her toast at breakfast (peanut butter is energized, jelly is lazy, chocolate spread when there's something wrong). You know she's allergic to biological washing powder, and hates anchovies. You thought you had forgotten it all, but it takes less than a week to come flooding back.

It takes about the same time to realise you loved her all along.

You manage to lock it all down though, because you know that right now, she needs a friend more than anything. It's why she called you in the first place. You tell her you're there for her, and do all you can to help her get ahead. After all, what's the point in being a managing partner if you can't use it a little? You know she'll step up to the plate, and she does. She has lost none of her skill or her intuition, and she knocks spots off poor Cary, who though good is just too wet behind the ears to be any sort of competition.

Some people notice. Baxter is – was – your best friend and he could read you like a book. You know Diane has her suspicions and that Kalinda sees straight through you. It disturbs you rather more that Duke fucking Roscoe decides to broadcast it on national television, but at the end of the day, it's only mud slinging. You can live with it as long as it doesn't upset Alicia.

But you still keep up that barrier, because you just know that's what Alicia wants.

And then she touches you. It is late, and you've screwed up, and you really feel at your lowest ebb. It is dark outside, and snowing, and there are only a few lights left on in the office, here and there. As soon as you see her walking towards your door, you wind up your phone call to Patty and sigh wearily.

'I blew it,' you say, and you don't want sympathy. You just need to get it out.

'No, Jesse blew it, and he knows it.' She sounds like she really believes that, still believes in you.

You shake your head. Does she really not see who you are now? How can she not hate you as much as you hate yourself? You look down at your hands and mutter something about playing craps with a kid's life. You're not even sure what you're saying, you're that disgusted with yourself.

You hear her put her coat and bag down on the desk next to you, then you feel her warm hand on your shoulder. Her thumb rubs your skin gently through your shirt and you turn your face away.

'Will, you listen,' she says earnestly. 'I know you did _everything._' She sounds so positive, so sure, and you want so desperately to believe her. You want to believe you are still the man she thinks you are. Maybe she's right; she always did know you better than you knew yourself.

So you look back at her slowly. You let her see in your eyes what you are thinking, what you feel for her, and she doesn't flinch or take her hand away. She just blinks, and waits to see what you are going to do next, but you know she knows.

You raise one hand up to touch her cheek, then the other, and then you stand to kiss her with absolute purpose, no hesitation. You feel her lips move slightly under yours and you know this is it.

You pause briefly for a breath, the pad of your thumb moving lightly over the soft porcelain skin of her cheek, and it occurs to you that this isn't as simple as you'd like it to be. You haven't had the guts to ask her exactly how things stand between her and Peter but she still wears her wedding ring and she let him move into the apartment when he came out of prison, so you feel it's only fair to give her an out. You pray to a God you long since gave up believing in that she doesn't take it.

She doesn't. You've barely started asking her if you're both making a mistake here when she cuts you off with her lips. This kiss is deeper, needier, so much less careful than the last, and you revel in the moan you hear leave her throat. It's the sexiest thing you've heard in a long time. Her hands are on your back, pulling you closer, and you hold her tight. Jesus, you've waited a long time for this, but it's worth it. Fuck, it's worth it. Her arm hooks around the back of your neck and your numbed brain begins to think about the direction of the couch. Or your desk. Or the floor. Or the wall. Anywhere. You'd take her anywhere she would let you.

Then she breaks away.

'Damn it.'

Your heart sinks. You start to try to say something, anything, but she cuts you off and you're glad because you don't think you can string together a sentence that doesn't involve begging her to stay. You swallow, and try to hold yourself together.

She can't even meet your eyes, but you can see the horror on her face. She starts to gather up her things and you let your arms fall away from her with a defeated sigh. If she wants to run, you can't stop her. If she wants to go back to Peter, you can't stop her.

If she wants to break your heart, you can't stop her.


End file.
